Back To You

Between endings (23)

The rhythm of my life with Bryce became a predictable, pleasant melody. Tuesday nights were for his rec-league basketball games. Thursdays, we tried a new recipe at his apartment. Saturdays were for group hangs, where Tayler was a polite, distant satellite in our orbit. Sundays were for lazy recovery. It was a good life. A stable life. It was the life I'd thought I wanted.

So why did I feel like I was living it in black and white?

It was a Thursday, and we were attempting a complicated pasta dish involving saffron and clams. Bryce was meticulously chopping parsley, each cut precise. I was supposed to be deveining shrimp, but I was mostly just staring at their weird, translucent bodies, my mind a thousand miles away.

"You're doing it again," Bryce said, not looking up from his cutting board.

"Doing what?"

"That thing where you leave." He set the knife down and finally looked at me. His expression wasn't angry, just... tired. "Your body's here, Madison. But you're not. You haven't been for a while."

The honesty, so calm and direct, dismantled my last line of defense. I put the shrimp down, wiping my hands on a towel. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he sighed, leaning against the counter. "Just be honest. Is it... is it him?"

There was no point lying. Not when he could see the ghost standing right between us. "It's not about him," I started, the old, weak defense. But Bryce's patient, unwavering gaze held me. He deserved more. "It's... the silence. His silence. It's louder than anything else."

Bryce nodded slowly, as if confirming a theory. "You know, I'm not blind. I see the way you watch him when you think no one's looking. The way you flinch every time he says your name like you're a stranger." He pushed off the counter and came to stand in front of me, taking my hands. His were warm, solid, a little damp from the parsley. "I knew what I was getting into. I knew he'd be a shadow. I just thought... I thought I could be brighter."

The ache in his voice was my fault. I had done this. I had taken his light and used it to try and illuminate my own shadows, and all I'd done was cast longer, more distorted ones. "You are bright, Bryce. You're everything that's steady and good."

"But I'm not him," he said, and it wasn't an accusation. It was a simple, devastating fact. "And I can't fight a ghost, Madison. Especially not one who's very much alive and... decent about it all. It's hard to hate a guy who just respectfully bows out."

Tears pricked my eyes, hot and shameful. "I never wanted you to fight. I never wanted any of this to be a fight."

"I know," he said softly, pulling me into a hug. He smelled like soap and fresh herbs. A good, clean smell. "But love isn't a committee decision. It's a lightning strike. And honey... I think you're still waiting for your storm to pass."

We stood like that for a long time, the pasta water boiling over onto the stove with a furious hiss. We didn't jump to fix it. We just let it burn.

---

The "breakup" wasn't dramatic. There were no slammed doors, no tearful public scenes. It happened two days later, on a bench in the park. The sun was shining. Children were laughing nearby.

"I care about you so much, Bryce," I said, my voice thick. "But this isn't fair to you. You deserve someone who's all in. Someone who doesn't have to constantly remind themselves to be present."

He took my hand, his thumb stroking my knuckles. "And you deserve to stop feeling guilty for wanting what you want." He gave a sad, half-smile. "Even if what you want is a complicated, frustrating idiot who's apparently become a monk."

A watery laugh escaped me. "He hasn't become a monk."

"Close enough," Bryce shrugged. "The point is, I can't be the band-aid for a wound I didn't make. And you can't heal if you're using me as a distraction." He let go of my hand and stood, stretching. The movement was final. "We'll be okay. We're adults. We have a whole group of friends who will be awkward about this for approximately one weekend before they get over it."

He was being so reasonable, so kind. It made the whole thing hurt more. "Are we... are we still friends?"

"Madison," he said, his tone gentle but firm. "Let's not do that to ourselves. Not right now. Maybe someday. But for now... let's just be people who used to be something. It's cleaner."

He leaned down and pressed a soft, final kiss to my forehead. A kiss of absolution. Then he walked away, his stride easy, hands in his pockets. He didn't look back.

I sat on the bench until the sun dipped low, the shadows stretching long across the grass. The relief I'd expected was absent. In its place was a vast, hollow emptiness. I had done the right thing. The fair thing. So why did I feel so utterly, completely alone?

My phone was a dead weight in my pocket. The instinct to call Olivia was strong, but she'd want to dissect it, to comfort me, and I couldn't bear it. The instinct to call him was a physical pull, a magnetic north in my chest. But what would I say? Hey, I'm single now. Your move? After weeks of his glacial politeness? It was laughable.

I was adrift. I had set Bryce free, and in doing so, I had cut my own tether. I was floating in the silent space between what was over and what might never begin again, with nothing but the echo of my own choices for company.

The colored lights of my life with Bryce had blinked out, one by one. And now I was left in the dark, with only the faint, stubborn, unchanging star of Tayler on the distant horizon—brighter than ever in the newfound blackness, and more impossibly out of reach.